“Then don’t think,” he murmurs. “Just sleep.”
Somehow, wrapped in the arms of a killer, surrounded by bulletproof walls and the ghost of violence, I do.
Chapter Twelve - Nikola
I wake at five thirty, the same time I’ve woken every morning for the past fifteen years. Internal clock calibrated by necessity, trained by discipline, reliable as atomic precision.
Today, something is different.
I don’t move immediately. Don’t check my phone or mentally review the day’s objectives. Instead, I lie perfectly still and watch Elara sleep.
She’s turned toward me in the gray predawn light, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, blonde hair spilled across the pillow like liquid gold. Her breathing is deep and even, the kind of sleep that comes after emotional and physical exhaustion has finally claimed its due. There’s something vulnerable about her like this—guard completely down, defenses nonexistent, trusting me enough to be utterly unprotected while I watch.
The trust undoes something in my chest. Something I’ve kept locked away so long I’d forgotten it existed.
This isn’t possession. Isn’t strategy. Isn’t the clinical satisfaction of a problem solved or an asset secured. This is something infinitely more dangerous—the kind of attachment that makes men stupid, reckless, willing to burn entire empires for one person’s safety.
I care about her. Not as a responsibility or obligation, but in the way that makes my chest tight when she’s afraid, makes my hands shake when she’s in danger, makes me willing to commit any violence necessary to ensure she wakes up tomorrow exactly like this.
The realization should terrify me. In my world, caring is weakness. Emotional investment is vulnerability that enemiesexploit. Love—because that’s what this is, even if I’m not ready to name it directly—love gets people killed.
Lying here, watching the woman who trusted me enough to let me inside her body and her defenses, I can’t bring myself to care about the tactical disadvantage. She’s made me reckless in ways I don’t fully understand. Made me want things I trained myself not to need: domestic mornings, shared silence, the right to protect someone because they matter to me personally rather than professionally.
She makes me emotional. Makes me human in ways that could compromise every carefully constructed wall I’ve built between personal feeling and professional necessity.
I’m terrified that I don’t want to change it.
I slip out of bed without waking her, pull on clothes in the bathroom, and make my way to the kitchen.
Coffee first. The ritual grounds me, gives me something familiar to focus on while my world shifts beneath my feet. Then I place the calls that will determine whether Elara lives or dies, whether this obsession destroys us both or becomes something we can survive.
Dima arrives first, as always. He takes one look at my face and pours himself coffee without asking.
“How bad?” he says.
“They had extraction protocols. Safe house in Queens, soundproofed facility, long-term containment capabilities.” I hand him the intelligence report I compiled from last night’s interrogation. “This wasn’t opportunistic harassment. This was systematic preparation for acquisition and processing.”
His jaw tightens as he reads. “Processing.”
“Breaking her down. Rebuilding her as something compliant. Then sale to the highest bidder.” The words tastelike ash. “Standard trafficking operation with premium target acquisition.”
“The timeline?”
“Unknown, but they were confident enough to move yesterday, which means everything else is in place. Safe house, transport routes, buyer networks—all of it ready to receive delivery.”
Simon arrives next, followed by Leon, both moving with the particular urgency that comes from understanding that family is under direct threat. Because that’s what Elara is now, regardless of how this marriage started. She’s family, which means protecting her isn’t just personal preference—it’s sacred obligation.
“Where do we stand?” Simon asks without preamble.
I spread the intelligence across the kitchen island—photos, names, organizational charts mapping Marcus Hale’s network from street-level contractors to executive decision-makers. “Hale’s been targeting Elara for months, possibly longer. Using Celeste Armand as an inside asset to gather intelligence, document patterns, identify vulnerabilities.”
“Celeste?” Leon’s voice is flat, dangerous. “The friend who warned her about you?”
“The same. She’s been feeding Hale information since before the scandal, positioning herself as ally while documenting everything necessary for successful capture.” I tap her photograph. “Every confidence Elara shared, every routine she revealed, every moment of trust—all of it reported back to facilitate her own kidnapping.”
The silence that follows is heavy with implications. Not just the scope of the betrayal, but what it means for operational security going forward. If someone that close to Elara wascompromised, how do we know who else might be feeding intelligence to hostile networks?
“Recommendations?” Simon asks.
